Authors: Elmore Leonard
MAGUIRE SAID TO LESLEY,
“Just tell him I’m whacked out, probably coming down with something.”
“I don’t wonder,” Lesley said. “The three of you get it on at one time, or you and the guy take turns? Hey, is he Andre?”
“Yeah, it’s Andre,” Maguire said, “and his wife. We haven’t seen each other in awhile, so I want to take the day off, spend some time with ’em.”
“He just loaned you his car a week ago, didn’t he?”
“Hey, Lesley,” Maguire said, “you’re gonna be late for work. Tell him, okay?”
“Brad’s pissed at you anyway for not coming back yesterday. He’s gonna want to know where you went.”
Maguire reached the end right there. He said, “Tell him whatever you want. I don’t give a shit.”
“Ca-al!”
She never called him Cal. Did she? What difference did it make? He went into his apartment, leaving
Lesley standing by her yellow Honda. (The Mercedes was parked two blocks away.)
Jesus, hunched in front of the television set, adjusting the picture, said, “Look, the house on Monegro.” A covered human form on an ambulance stretcher was being carried down the front steps as the voice-over newscaster described the mysterious shooting, the murder of a woman named Epifania Cruz. The newscaster said the police were now looking for the woman’s daughter and son-in-law, the last tenants of the house.
Vivian Arzola, holding a coffeepot, watched from the stove. She said, “You know what it’s like?” Neither Maguire nor Jesus looked at her, watching the woman’s body being lifted into the van now. “Like in a movie, the people run out of the house, they reach safety just in time and the house blows up.”
They were looking at a commercial now. When Maguire realized it he turned off the television set. Next thing they’d be watching Dinah Shore and Merv Griffin. He said, “We got to do it tonight. Figure out how and set it up—”
“If we’re sure we’re gonna do it,” Jesus said.
They had gotten Vivian out of the house on Monegro yesterday. They weren’t going to sit around here or take her from place to place. Vivian had said she wanted to get far away from here. It
wasn’t worth it, looking over her shoulder all the time. She had to go someplace else.
“It’s
how
we do it, not
if
,” Maguire said. “It’s got to be at the DiCilia house.”
“Why?” Jesus said.
“Because the police were there already”—Maguire speaking quietly, wanting Jesus to relax and listen—“when Roland tried to grab your sister. Okay, he comes to try again, armed, huh? Only this time we’re there. You’re defending your sister, you shoot him.”
“
Me?
I thought you were gonna shoot him.”
“One or the other,” Maguire said. “You know how to fire a gun, don’t you?”
“Sure, I know that. But I never shot at anybody.”
“Let’s talk about—first, how do we get him there?” Maguire said. “He comes because he thinks Vivian’s in the house.”
“You’re crazy you think I’m going there,” Vivian said.
“You don’t have to go there. I’m saying he thinks you’re there because we get him to believe it. Like, say I call you from there later. I say, ‘Okay, Vivian, it’s all set. We’ll pick you up, you spend the night here and take you to the police first thing in the morning.’ You say something, he hears your voice, he knows it’s you.”
“I don’t understand,” Vivian said, then began to
nod. “Yeah, the tap on the phone. I can’t even think straight.”
“What if he don’t?” Jesus said. “If he’s busy looking for Vivian and he don’t listen to it?”
“I don’t know,” Maguire said, wondering if he had to tell Karen about it and not wanting to. Though if they had to wait around a few days until Roland picked up the tape—it might turn out he’d have to tell her. But he didn’t want to bring her into it. He wanted to get it done and present her with it. There, the guy’s off your back. Making it look, not easy exactly, but not too hard either. There. You have any other problems?
He said to Jesus, “What’s the guy’s name working for him?”
“Lionel Oliva.”
“Okay, you tell Lionel you know where Vivian is. You say you found out Vivian’s gonna be there tonight. Your sister told you.”
“What if he asks why I’m telling him?” Jesus said. “He knows I won’t do any favor for Roland.”
“Tell him—what if you tell him you’re setting Roland up for somebody?”
“Then what’s Lionel get out of it? He says bullshit. If he tells Roland and Roland gets taken out, who’s gonna pay him?”
“You tell him you’ll pay him,” Maguire said. “What’s it worth to him?”
“He’s gonna be scared. You miss, the first one Roland go sees is Lionel, knowing he was set up.”
“How about a grand?”
“You kidding? He’d do it himself for a grand.”
“And get some more stitches in his head,” Maguire said. “I’ve seen Lionel.
That
Lionel? No, we do it. But he sets it up. All he has to do, tell Roland he knows Vivian’s gonna be there tonight. That’s all he knows. He heard it from you and you told him not to tell anybody, acting very mysterious about it. You think he can do it?”
“Yeah, he can do that.”
“And act dumb?”
“Easy,” Jesus said.
“Then Roland gets the tape, hears Vivian’s voice, he knows it’s true. Even if he doesn’t get the tape, he’s got to go find out after Lionel tells him. But it’s better if he does, because then he hears Vivian’s voice, hears she’s going to the police—it’s much better that way. We don’t want Lionel telling him all that and mess it up.”
Jesus said, “Okay, but what gun do we use? I don’t want to use mine, have to get rid of it after.”
“No, we don’t get rid of it,” Maguire said. “That’s what I’ve been talking about. We call the cops, we have to have a gun to show ’em, right?”
“You want to call the cops?”
Jesus, Maguire thought. He said, “Look. The
guy comes in to rape your sister. You shoot him.
Some
body shoots him. You don’t throw his body in the Intercoastal, you call the cops and give ’em the gun. That’s what you
do
. Okay, then Vivian reads about it in the paper. Roland Crowe killed in rape attempt. Vivian goes to the police, tells ’em she knows Roland killed Ed Grossi. The police let the other guy go.”
“I’m telling you, he better be dead,” Vivian said, “or I don’t say a word to them, not even my name.”
“He’ll be dead,” Maguire said. He looked at Jesus. “You don’t want to use your gun—okay, tell your sister there’s a gun upstairs in Karen’s bedroom, top dresser drawer. Tell her to sneak it out of there, bring it down to her room. We slip in the house after dark, she gives it to us. It was Frank DiCilia’s gun. They want to bust somebody for possession they can dig up Frank. But bring your own anyway, just in case.”
“Then what?” Jesus said. “He comes in—when do we do it?”
“That part, we’ll have to wait and see,” Maguire said.
Karen watched him coming out from the house. She stood at the shallow end of the pool drying herself lightly with a beach towel. He was putting on his sunglasses now, taking her all in.
“Do you really have that much nerve,” Karen said, “or’re you showing off?”
“What nerve?”
“Using the phone. You know he’s going to hear it. You disguise your voice or what?”
“He’s got to do more’n hear me, he’s got to catch me.”
“Who were you calling?”
“The guy I work for. Find out if I still have a job.”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, I guess I’d rather quit than be fired. But I don’t feel like working. He was busy, so I still don’t know.”
“I can’t imagine you being worried about it,” Karen said, “the job.”
“I’m not worried, I want to know how he feels.”
Karen said, “I saw the news this morning . . . the house. Strange, the woman wasn’t Vivian.”
“No, we got her out of there. I forgot to tell you.”
“Something’s going on,” Karen said. “In fact I think there’s quite a lot you haven’t told me.”
Maguire watched her walk to the table to get something out of a straw bag. The slim brown body. Effortless moves. The quiet tone. He’d bet she drove a car fast and without effort; he saw the two of them, briefly, in the white Alpha Romeo heading for southern Spain.
He said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Like you know something you’re not telling.”
“What’s Karen DiCilia’s secret,” Karen said. “Read the latest speculation in next month’s
Goldcoaster
. Though this one’s going to be on Karen Hill.”
“Who’s she?” Maguire said.
“Who knows,” Karen said.
“You going out tonight?”
“Like where?”
He wanted to say to her, It won’t be long; hang on. But said, “I’ll see you later then, okay?”
“Fine. Anytime.”
He left Karen in her backyard world putting on sunglasses, lighting a cigarette. Maguire walked up S.E. Seventeenth toward the beach, where he’d left the Mercedes. He wondered if she did know something she wasn’t telling. He wondered about the photos of her in the locked room. When this was over he’d ask her about them.
Was she lighting a cigarette when he left?
He wondered when she had started smoking. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention lately, looking but overlooking, missing something.
Karen had a glass of distilled water from the refrigerator. She left Marta in the kitchen cleaning vegetables for dinner. Moving along the back hall,
Karen paused, looked around, stepped into Marta’s room and quietly closed the door. The cassette recorder was still beneath the bed, with a box of cassette cartridges. Karen brought them out, hunching down on her elbows and knees. She changed the setting from “Record” to “Rewind,” stopped it, pushed the “Play” button and within a few moments heard Maguire’s voice.
“Vivian? Hi, it’s all set. We’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty and bring you right here. Then first thing in the morning we go to Miami.”
Vivian’s voice said, “I’m so afraid he’s going to find me. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. God, I can’t
think
.”
Maguire’s voice said, “Tomorrow it’ll be over. The Miami Police’ll pick him up, you identify him, that’s it.”
Vivian’s voice said, “I’ll be so glad when it’s over.”
Maguire’s voice said, “Eleven-thirty, Vivian. See you then.”
Karen played the tape back and listened to it again, twice.
She was surprised, puzzled.
Then annoyed.
Karen ejected the tape cartridge. Holding it in her hand, she got a blank cartridge from the box, snapped the new one in position and pushed the recorder and the box back under Marta’s bed.
KAREN BATHED AND DRESSED.
She had a martini in the living room while she watched the news. At a quarter to seven she went into the kitchen carrying a handbag and the keys to Frank’s Seville, in the garage.
Marta looked at her, surprised. “I was going to ask if you’re ready for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I told you,” Karen said, “I’m having dinner out.” She looked at the salad greens drying on the counter. “You haven’t started anything yet, have you?”
“No—” She seemed to want to say more.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Marta said, “if Roland comes.”
“I thought your brother picks up the tape.”
“Remember, I tole you he doesn’t do it anymore.”
“Well, it’s up to you,” Karen said. “But if you don’t want to open the door when he comes, then don’t.”
“That wouldn’t stop him.”
“Maybe not. It seems funny, though, to be offering you advice,” Karen said. “I tried to help you before. You had a chance to have him arrested and you didn’t.”
“Of course. For the same reason I don’t want to be alone with him. I’m scared, I don’t know what to do.”
“And I don’t know what to tell you,” Karen said. “You’re afraid to let him in and you’re afraid not to.”
“I wish things would be the same, the way it used to be,” Marta said.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Karen said. “So, are you going to give him the tape?”
“I guess so.”
Karen jiggled her keys, getting the one for the Seville ready. She said, “Well, I have to go,” but remained by the kitchen table, looking at Marta. “I think what I would do, I’d leave the tape for him outside the door and get away from here for awhile. Maybe a few days. You know? Instead of putting yourself in the middle of something that really doesn’t concern you.”
“Leave here?”
“Why not? What’s anyone done for you lately?”
Just in time.
Roland wheeled his Coupe de Ville into the drive
as Marta was backing out, saw her brakelights flash and, before she knew it, was pressed against her rear bumper.
Out of the car Roland said, “Hey, don’t leave on my account. Where we going?” He looked toward the open garage doors and at the house, up at the second-floor windows, as though he might catch someone watching him.
Roland picked up the envelope with his name on it—
ROLAND
, in big blue letters—from the steps and moved aside to let Marta unlock the door.
“There’s nobody home,” she said.
“Don’t look like it,” Roland said. “I ain’t gonna play house with you today, sugar, I want to use your telephone.” He dialed the one in the kitchen, waited, said, “Son of a bitch,” and hung up. “Where’s Karen at?”
“She went out to dinner.”
“Who with?”
“Nobody. Alone.”
“ ‘Less she’s meeting him, huh? Let’s go in your bedroom and listen to this one,” Roland said, holding up the envelope. “Many calls today?”
“Only a few,” Marta said.
Minutes later, in Marta’s room, after playing the tape and hearing nothing, Roland said, “I’d say that’s less than a few. Or else this here’s the wrong one.”
“I took it out of the machine,” Marta said.
“And I know you wouldn’t lie to me,” Roland said, straightening up from the recorder on the chair, standing close to Marta, the bed behind her. “Would you?”
“I have no reason to lie,” she said.
“You got a nice body, you know it?”
Marta stood rigid, her head turned away from his chest.
“But I don’t have time just now to make you happy. Your tough luck,” Roland said, going into the kitchen. He picked up the wall phone and dialed again.
This time he said, “You dink, where you been?”
Lionel’s voice said, “I was in the toilet a minute.”
“Drinking beer—how many you have?”
“I’m sitting here, I have to do something,” Lionel’s voice said, the sound of a salsa beat behind him.
“Hang on a sec.” Roland looked at Marta. “Go on out in the living room.” He waited until she was in the hall before saying to Lionel, “Get in your boat and bring it up to Bahía Mar.”
Lionel’s voice said, “Man, it’s gonna be dark soon.”
“I hope so,” Roland said. “I’ll meet you there by the gas pumps in about a hour.” He started to hang up, then said, “Hey, Jesus say his sister told him or what?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about his sister,” Lionel’s voice said. “He say it was Vivian.”
Roland held the phone away from him, away from the Caribbean jukebox music behind Lionel. Sure as hell—the sound of a car starting up outside, revving up, then banging something and a terrible sound of metal scraping metal.
“Shit,” Roland said. “You be there.” He banged the phone into its cradle and ran out of the kitchen to the side door.
Marta had her car turned around on the lawn; she cut across the drive and was screeching away, leaving the front left fender of Roland’s Coupe de Ville all torn to hell.
The Palm Bay waiter said to Karen, “The gentleman at the bar would like to join you for a drink, if he may.”
Karen looked from the booth she was in to a man with gray-styled hair and a paisley jacket. Half-turned from the bar he raised his drink to her.
“Does he know my name?” Karen said.
“Oh, yes. He said, ‘Ask Mrs. DiCilia.’ ”
“Tell him he’s mistaken,” Karen said.
The waiter smiled. “You don’t want a drink with him?”
“I said tell him he’s mistaken.”
“Very good,” the waiter said.
When the man with the gray-styled hair came
over, Karen said, “I don’t know you. I don’t intend to. Would you go away, please?”
“If you’re alone, no harm in having a drink, a nice chat—”
“Beat it,” Karen said. She stared up at him until he mumbled, “Sorry,” and went back to the bar.
See? Nothing to it.
The look was important. Icy calm, unwavering; the tone quiet, somewhat bored. Maybe a little more work on the tone, keeping the voice low.
Maybe another one would come along. The rescuers—
The Maguires.
Maguire was going to stick his neck out all the way, showing off, and never be heard of again. The natural-born loser. She could try to prevent it, within reason; but if he insisted on playing the rescuer, then she’d have to let him. Karen Hill DiCilia was at the Palm Bay Club the night it happened. Or she was home, but it wasn’t exactly clear what had happened, Karen Hill’s part in it. Karen Hill seemed cooperative. Yes, she knew the deceased, was acquainted with him. But Karen Hill obviously knew more than she was telling.
The waiter came over and said, “If I may disturb you, please. The gentleman at the table by the window—?”
Karen looked over. “Does he know my name?”
* * *
Marta drove all the way to Jesus’ apartment on Alhambra, Coral Gables, and got in after she proved to the manager she was Jesus’ sister and not some girl who wanted to rip him off. God, all the things there were to go through and worry about—walking back and forth in Jesus’ living room, walking to the kitchen, walking to the front window, looking out at the street and the cars going by, some with their lights on already, the time passing so fast, rushing her and not giving her a chance to think. She got the phone number from her purse, the Casa Loma, and dialed, then had to wait as the phone rang at least twenty times. When the woman answered, Marta asked if she could please speak to her brother, the man visiting Mr. Maguire. Marta could hear sounds of voices talking and an audience laughing, applauding on the phone, having a good time, as she waited again.
When Jesus was on the phone she said, “I left there. I’m not going back.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at your place, but I’m leaving here, too.”
“Did Roland come?”
“Did he come—he was gonna take my clothes off again and I ran out. I’m not going back.”
“Calm yourself,” Jesus said. “I can’t hear you very well, this TV playing.”
“I’m not going back there,” Marta said.
“You have to be in the house,” Jesus said. “You understand you have to be there.”
“What is it to me,” Marta said, “or you? It’s none of our business. What do we get out of it?”
“Listen, stay there,” Jesus said. “I’ll come soon as I can, and we’ll talk about it. All right?”
“I’m gonna have to go get her,” Jesus said to Maguire.
“Did he pick up the tape?”
“Yeah, but he tried something, so she ran out and went to my place. She’ll be all right.”
“You sure?”
“If I take Vivian’s car”—looking at Vivian on the bed with the newspaper on her lap, watching them—“I can go get Marta, talk to her first. See, then bring her to the house and meet you there. Take maybe an hour, a little more.”
“Did she put the gun in her room?”
“I didn’t ask her, but I know she did.”
Maguire didn’t like it. He said, “Call Marta back. Have her come here.”
“She won’t. I have to talk to her first. Then everything be all right.”
“You can’t drive up to the house in Vivian’s car.”
“No, we leave it at my place, take Marta’s. Roland comes, sees Marta’s car, he thinks oh, she’s back. Good.”
Maguire said to Vivian, “Is it okay with you?”
“What do I have to say about it? Nothing,” Vivian said. “All I want to know is he’s dead.”
“All right,” Maguire said to Jesus. “But you got to get back by nine-thirty quarter to ten, the latest.”
“Easy,” Jesus said. “Don’t worry.”